Between the Drops

Today, this is what I felt like sharing. It is a quiet moment from my life that somehow feels both deeply personal and strangely universal. There are days when the world feels impossibly loud, when even my own thoughts seem to crowd in, demanding attention. On such days, I find myself longing for something softer, something quieter, something that belongs only to me.

Most days, I move through life as though I am walking through a crowded parlour, hemmed in by invisible walls and the quiet expectations of others. There is a hush to my existence, a carefulness that lingers in every gesture and word. I am ever aware of being observed, even in solitude, catching my own reflection in passing windows or in the fleeting, sidelong glance of a stranger. The air seems to carry the silent weight of expectation, pressing upon even the most ordinary hours. At times, my own thoughts become like distant onlookers, quietly judging, offering counsel, reminding me of what I ought to do or who I ought to become.

This life, it seems, is a subtle performance. I measure my words, weigh my actions, and strive to keep each aspect of myself in order, as though the world itself were a great ledger and I, its most diligent bookkeeper. There are dreams left half-built, worries half-buried, and the ceaseless hum of tasks left undone. My mind is rarely still. It is a restless chamber, forever reaching, forever rehearsing, forever revisiting the past and preparing for what is yet to come.

Yet, everything changes when the rain arrives.

The first sign is seldom seen but rather felt. There is a coolness in the air, a subtle shifting of the light, and the faint, earthy fragrance that rises as if the world itself has drawn a deep breath. The sky darkens, the wind stirs, and for a moment, the world seems to pause in anticipation. The earliest drops fall softly, hesitantly, as if seeking permission to descend.

It is then that I begin to long for solitude, the kind which only the rain bestows. There is a gentle ache within me, a quiet urgency to step beyond the threshold and allow the world to fall away. Sometimes I find myself upon the grass, at other times upon the cold, unyielding surface of a rooftop, and sometimes wherever fate has placed me. The particular place matters little, for it is the rain that seeks me out, and I yield to its call.

I recline, arms open, my gaze following the shifting tapestry of clouds above. The rain falls, at first in scattered drops, then in a steady, enveloping rhythm. It soaks through my garments, cool and insistent, tracing silent paths along my skin. I do not stir, nor do I shield myself. I surrender wholly to the rain’s gentle insistence.

In such moments, something within me is released. The noise of my mind, the endless lists, the persistent worries, the ceaseless self-editing, fades quietly into the background, softened by the steady murmur of water upon earth. My lips curve into a smile, wide and unguarded, a smile that feels at once ancient and newly discovered, as though I am recalling some lost wisdom of childhood. The marketplace of my mind is emptied, and there remains only the rain, the sky, and the singular sensation of being present.

I had once read,

“The three great elemental sounds in nature are the sound of rain, the sound of wind in a primeval wood, and the sound of outer ocean on a beach." 

In the hush of the rain, I feel I am listening to the very heartbeat of the world itself.

Man is, in truth, a peculiar creature. Though he professes to love the vividness of life, the company of others, the bustling crowd, and even the burdens of daily care, he finds himself yearning for solitude as if it were the rarest of delicacies. And when at last he attains it, he cannot help but reflect upon all these things, smiling quietly at the strangeness of his own heart. 

Solitude, which I have found, is a happiness of the gentlest sort. It does not declare itself loudly, but hums softly within the breast, much like the rain itself. It is a joy that feels almost secret, as though the world has paused for one’s sake alone, and for a fleeting moment, one is truly enough.

For a little while, I am honest. Not merely with others, but with myself, with nature, and with the life that pulses quietly around me. There are no masks, no careful calculations, no need to be anything other than what I am. The rain is indifferent to my image, to my unfinished ambitions, to my failings and my triumphs. It does not seek explanations, nor does it demand apologies. It simply falls, generous and untroubled, and in its presence, I am permitted at last to be silent. I become once more the child I was, arms outstretched, face turned skyward, laughing for no reason save that the rain is falling and I am alive.

Time, in the rain, seems to slow. The world beyond becomes distant, its edges softened and indistinct. The sound of each drop is a lullaby, a gentle assurance that it is enough to exist, to feel, to be. The earth grows richer, the air purer, and for a few precious minutes, I am part of something greater than myself, something ancient and enduring.

When the rain at last begins to abate, and the sky brightens, the world emerges anew, glistening and refreshed. I rise slowly, my garments heavy with water, yet I myself feel lighter, as though some secret burden has been washed away. I carry the hush of the rain with me, a quiet that lingers even as I return to the familiar noise of daily life.

In the smallest, most ordinary things, preparing tea, penning a letter, walking along a quiet road, I sense the change. There is a touch more ease, a shade more honesty. The restlessness subsides, the urge to perform grows gentler. I remember, even as the demands of the day gather once more, what it was to be alone with the rain, to be stripped to my simplest self.

Throughout the year, I find myself waiting for this. I watch the sky, listen for the distant rumble of thunder, breathe in the promise of rain upon sun-warmed stone. I long for that solitude, that sacred pause, that moment when I may set aside every mask and simply exist. There are no expectations, no judgments, no noise, only me and the rain, and the quiet, undeniable truth of being alive.

And so, as I write these words, I realize that today, this is what I needed to remember. Should all things end in the next moment, should my dreams remain unfinished and my worries unresolved, I believe I should be content. For I have known this: the rain, the silence, the honesty, and the freedom to be myself.

“Let the rain kiss you, let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops, let the rain sing you a lullaby, as Langston Hughes so gently wrote." 

This is the memory I cherish, the gift I carry, long after the last cloud has drifted away.